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reached into a shoulder holster and withdrew a Pendleton-Sellers .31 caliber semimag automatic with the Bolan augmented armature. The pistol fired a shell that exploded into fragments a foot away from the muzzle of the gun. Anything in the immediate area would be downed. It could level a cocktail party of people faster than Norman Mailer talking prison reform could level common sense.
Spencer pulled the slide back to put a shell into the firing chamber. As he did, he backed away from Remo, lest the crazy American make a suicidal lunge.
"Don't back up any more," Remo said.
"An old trick, Yank."
"I'm warning you. Don't go any further."
"You're the one who's going, pally," said Spencer.
Too late, Spencer heard the roar. He wheeled just as the bull rammed into him. The beast's large, curved horns dug deep into the Englishman's belly and the bull lifted him, impaled on the horns, up over his head. The bull stopped and looked at Remo as if he recognized him, then turned and crashed away down the tunnel toward the partially open doors.
The trumpet player was in full throat but his music died in a squawk as the bull broke out into the sunshine, his cargo of dead Englishman avast on his horns.
The crowd screamed.
Remo walked back to Terri and Chiun.
"Damn," he said. "I wanted to get some answers from him."
"He was very brave," Terri said.
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"Your dream man, huh? Good. The next one to come after us, I'll let him have you," Remo said.
"You didn't have anything to do with it," Terri said. "His bomb didn't go off. And his knife fell apart before it hit you. And the bull got him before he could shoot you."
"Lady," Remo said.
"What?"
"You're an asshole." Remo turned his back on her and said to Chiun, "I wish I knew who sent him."
"I know who sent him," Chiun said.
"You do? Who? How?"
"Did you not see the crest on his jacket?"
"No."
"Then you did not see the crest on the jackets of the others who tried to kill us?" Chiun said.
"No."
"The same crest will be on that knife," Chiun said.
Remo trotted back down the tunnel and picked up the hilt of the knife. He looked at it as he walked back to Chiun. A lion, a sheaf of wheat, and a dagger.
"What is it?" Remo asked.
"The House of Wissex," Chiun said.
"Who the hell are they?"
"Some upstart Englishmen," Chiun said. "I thought we had taught them a lesson." He shook his head sadly. "But some people never learn."
Fifteen
"Here's a big one." Hank Bindle was looking at the pictures in Variety's International Film Annual and he stopped to point out a full-page ad to Bruce Marmelstein.
"What's it about?" Marmelstein asked, craning his neck to look at the page.
"I don't know," Bindle said. "Let's see. It's got a picture of an airplane and a girl falling off a building and a guy with a sword."
"New guy or old guy?" asked Marmelstein.
"Old guy, you know, wearing like some kind of fur. With muscles. Like Conan. And there's like a missile heading for the city."
"Sounds like Conan meets Superman. I didn't hear that anybody's doing that," Marmelstein said. "You can't read any of the words?"
"I think this one is the. Is the T-H-E?"
"I think that's the. He pronounced it thee.
"What's the difference between the and thee?" Bindle drew out the long sound of the syllable.
"They're different words," Marmelstein said. "That much I know."
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"What about when you say the book and thee apple?" Hank Bindle said, scratching his head in bewilderment. "You mean they're different words?"
"Well, how could they be the same word if you sound one the and the other one thee?'''' Marmelstein asked. He twisted the chains around his neck as he always did when he was involved in a deep philosophical discussion.
"You just did it," Bindle said.
"Did what?"
"You said the same word and then you said thee other one. You used both of those words in the same sentence."
Marmelstein smiled warmly. "I sure did, didn't I?"
"You know a lot of words, Bruce," said Bindle.
"You have to work hard to stay ahead of the crowd. It's a jungle out there."
"You know," Bindle said, "I'm glad we both know now that the other one can't read. It's made us closer, kind of."
"Partners should always be honest," Marmelstein said.
"Right," said Bindle.
"Good. Now who can we rip off?" Marmelstein asked. "Did the new incorporation come in?" asked Bindle.
"Yes," said Marmelstein. "Just today. So now we have a new corporate structure."
"I hope we keep this one longer than a week," Bindle said. "I always have trouble remembering the names of whatever corporation we're supposed to be each week."
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"Just leave the business side of it to me," Marmelstein said. "You know, I wish I knew what that Barry Schweid was up to."
"Yeah," said Bindle. "He's got some nerve going to another producer."
"Especially after we produced his other movies. Teeth. Space Battle. Distant Encounters of the First Kind."
"Don't forget On Silver Lake," Bindle said.
"That's right. We've done some good ones." Marmelstein said. "A few more and we might even think about stopping selling cocaine."
"I don't know about that," said Bindle. "There's a lot of money in cocaine."
"Are we interested in money or creating enduring cinematic art?" Marmelstein asked. He pronounced it "cinemackic."
The two partners looked at each other for a few long seconds as the question hung in the air, unanswered. Finally, they nodded.
"Right. Money," they said in unison.
The telephone rang inside Marmelstein's desk. The desk was a large pink Italian marble slab, resting at both ends on two slices of highly-varnished wood cut from redwood trees. On Marmelstein's side of the desk, the redwood had been hollowed out so that a file cabinet could fit into each side of the pedestal.
There was nothing in the file cabinet except the telephone. Marmelstein thought it was tacky to have a telephone on the desk. He had gotten that idea when he first came to Hollywood and went into a producer's office and there was no telephone
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on the desk. It was the only real producer's office he had ever been in and he assumed that all producers spurned the telephone, especially since he had never been able to reach any of them by phone. If he had been able to read, he would have seen in the local press the week after he had met the phoneless producer that the producer had been indicted for embezzlement, for diverting money to his own personal use and letting production company bills go unpaid. Among the unpaid bills was the telephone bill. His phone had been removed by Earth Mother Bell, the Hollywood phone company.
Marmelstein opened the desk drawer, but before he answered the phone, he said to Bindle, "Listen to the new name."
He lifted the receiver.
"Hello. Universal Bindle Marmelstein Mammoth Global Magnificent Productions speaking. How may we help you?"
He smiled at Bindle. The name of the company had been carefully chosen to allow the two partners to tell people that they were with Universal and mumble the rest of the words, or that they were with MGM, short for Mammoth Global Magnificent. Every little bit helped, Marmelstein thought. And often said.
"Bruce, this is Barry Schweid. I want you to help me."
"That's what I said on the phone. 'How may we help you?' " Marmelstein said. "Right after I said Universal Bindle Marmelstein Mammoth Global Magnificent Productions. That's our new name."
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"Yeah, yeah, I know all that. I want you to come in as partners on one of my movies. Minor partners," Schweid said.